


And he doesn't open his eyes.

by tsukhood



Series: To My One True Love [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben Solo Lives, Caretaking, Coma, F/M, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Post-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukhood/pseuds/tsukhood
Summary: After the battle of Exegol, Ben returned home, and entered a semi-comatose state. It's completely psychological, and the prognosis is full recovery after a while. For now, Rey can do nothing but take care of him. Even though she's a super human with her newly discovered powers, it's not an easy situation.[Written 3 months after Kylo Ren's death.]
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: To My One True Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680730
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	And he doesn't open his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> after debating a lot, i decided to start posting some of my more personal work. those stories were written each one in one night, no editing, they're almost vent art. they sound quite similar in themes/style, especially this one and 'To Him. By Her'.
> 
> this state of mental shutdown described in this text is something i think about since my teens. only recently i discovered it has a lot of similarities to the real world resignation syndrome. i apologise for any unwanted disrespectful undertone it might have.

Still so beautiful, and I love him a lot. But i'll tell you what happened. It's been a hard time, but we do believe he'll be back soon enough.

The glare and the fire. The rain. The lightning. The memories are like an alternative reality: they exist in a different existence of reality, but are still there. 

He's still there, somehow.

We had an experience one could call death. The eyes close, the heart stops beating. Everything is cold and after you fade, there's nothing. And after nothing, there comes his face. Smiling. 

A weary smile, that's for sure. Wrinkled around the eyes. Thirty years felt like fifty, as in that exact second he could feel again, not just fear and pretend. Then he was cold and fell to the ground.

I lifted him. I became a super human, so I brought him with me. Not to bury him, the energies may forbid, but to bring him home. Even though his eyes won't open, he still breathes. Probably tired and hurt, even more than I am now. I am a super human. I tire no more.

He started interacting just a couple of moments before we arrived. I saw who he was, who he was before he was broken: lively, and masculine, full of energy and agitating the entire atmosphere around him. He's a big man, but his presence always felt more like an animal stalking than a man who happens to have a large arm span. Now we all could feel it, and feed off that nourishing presence.

He went to take a nap. He never woke up.

I called his name. I struck him with my hand. His eyes were still closed.

We called the medics, the people of religion, everyone. His health was perfect, even more than it should as he had survived a lot. But he's not a super human like me. So even though his bones returned to their places and healed the cracks, his heart stopped there. Still breathing, not technically alive.

The final conclusion: his mind just shut down. It was too much.

He's not like a baby. Babies do a lot, more than one is expected to deal with. He just lays there. Tall, large, useless. A big mound lying under the sheets, warm to touch, softly moving up and down.

He changes position sometimes. Lying on his back, then we see him clumsily moving his limbs and torso until he's lying on his stomach. Looks like he's asleep, but we do know he's somewhat conscious. He won't answer to his name or talk, but he feels my presence. His expression changes. His body softens. He seems eager to interact, and doesn't. I can almost hear the words slipping from his lips.

I won't describe the nasty parts. Leave this to your imagination. 

We dress him, bathe him, shave the hair that still insists on growing on his face. When it starts growing I almost panic. Take this thing off, take this thing off. He wouldn't like it. I only saw him with hair on his face one time, he was depressed, and the layer was still too thin for any eye that's not the eye of a woman in love.

So my interaction is mainly to appreciate him. When it's hot, we remove his shirt. My gaze dances on his back, on his chest. His scar. I don't lust after him anymore, and when I do, I punish myself. It's disrespectful. My eye sees him as a landscape or a work of art. Beautiful dunes, light, sandy toned. You wouldn't sleep with a dune. 

The fact is that he's still troubled. He sleeps sometimes, as much as any of us, I guess, and he has nightmares. He's unrestful. He whines. It's probably the memories. I am a super human, but my heart is just the heart of a small girl. No one ever outgrows panic. The memories make me feel like I am made of stone.

I prep him up. I use my fingers to give knots, buns and braids to his hair. Still so thick, and strong, and oily. This is the face of a man who's just sleeping, not someone who doesn't open his mouth since the last change of seasons, like a corpse of the Great War would.

Corpse. This word is horrible. It prompts an anxiety that more than once made me consider vomiting. 

I sleep next to him. I enjoy spending my time next to him. I must confess I have talks with him, long, confessional talks, despite being well aware he won't answer. He doesn't connect with me anymore. The bond still exists, but when I try to reach it, it seems dormant.

I don't know what he's thinking. I wonder if he's thinking at all.

The medics say they know cases like this, that he'll be back someday. I'll wait. I'm good at waiting.


End file.
